


Hanging By A Moment

by Nubriema



Category: Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Hangover, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Crush, Sex, hella resolved, i'm not even sure how to tag this tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 02:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nubriema/pseuds/Nubriema
Summary: He's not equipped to deal with this, not right now, in this state of mind, this early. He stares at the back of her head, at that achingly familiar shade of pink spilled all over his pillows, and tries to make sense of it all.It's not the first time he wakes to find himself in bed with a girl he cannot remember getting into it with, and he has never reacted to it like this.But after all, this is Mimi next to him, and that means that normal rules don't apply anymore.





	Hanging By A Moment

**Author's Note:**

> [Please note: This has been called "the hangover fic" for the entire WIP process and features, duh, a hangover. I've never been hung over in my life, so my description of it is an approximation of what I've been told it's like. I don't condone excessive drinking and this fic sure as heck isn't meant to glorify it. I myself don't even drink any alcohol at all anymore at this point. If you do, please drink responsibly and stay safe! :) ]
> 
>  
> 
> For my dearest Michi friends and fellow members of the "Taichi's bitches" Club, [dianaagron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianaagron/pseuds/dianaagron) and [biminnie](http://biminnie.tumblr.com/). ♥  
> It took me ages, but there, it's done. This turned out to be not only lengthier, but also 500% cheesier and five times less smutty than I expected when I first set out to write it, but oh well.
> 
> Enjoy, everybody! ;)

_"Forgetting all I'm lacking, completeley incomplete,_

_I'll take your invitation, you take all of me now"_

~ " _Hanging By A Moment_ ", by Lifehouse ~

 

 

 

He wakes to the sound of rain and dull light creeping through the blinds, and even in his drowsy state, he knows he isn't feeling so stellar.

He's not sure what happened before he went to bed, but Taichi is at least certain that his head isn't supposed to hurt this much in the morning. That usually only happens when he's had a few beers too many on the night before, and _that_ usually happens mostly when there was a soccer victory to celebrate.

Come to think of it, he dimly remembers that yesterday might have been the final day of that tournament he has been preparing for for the past two months. Given that his body feels a little numb and his legs like lead, this assumption seems like one worth supporting, and so he decides to go with it.

The only thing that this otherwise sound theory does _not_ account for is the fact that his left arm is all pins and needles and hurts like a bitch.

He groans in protest, cracks his eyes open nevertheless, to take inventory of both his body and his surroundings. (History has shown that it's a good idea to do that before moving any further; this much he remembers.) The corners of his eyes feel crusted and his throat a little raw, and he makes a mental note to text Yamato later — as soon as he can get out of bed and find his phone, which might take a while — and ask whether he has to prepare for finding himself on YouTube, shouting the lyrics to a Bon Jovi song at the top of his lungs.

He has asked his friends to keep him away from any type of karaoke or sound systems when he's drunk, after it happened a few times, but he can never be sure they will. He pulls too many pranks on all of them on a regular basis for them to pass up such a golden opportunity.

The light that filters into his bedroom (and it _is_ his bedroom after all, that much he recognizes, at least that's something) is washed in grey and rather dim, but still almost too bright for his taste. He blinks a few times to adjust, then gives up and shuts his eyes again. His other senses will have to do for the moment. He stretches his legs a little, flexes this muscle and that, even dares to shift his numb arm around a bit until he can feel sweet, fresh blood circulating again — _thank goodness_ —, and the movement also reveals why his poor limb fell asleep in the first place.

He is sprawled out on his back, but his left arm is curled around something that definitely feels like a human body. — A very _soft_ human body, he now notices with growing interest, and probably a female one: when he splays his fingers, they meet an even softer breast beneath loose fabric.

He gives a contented hum from the back of his throat at the realization. Now _this_ is a lovely turn of events; he is already starting to feel better about the whole situation. It can't have been that bad a night if he has managed to drag somebody into his bed despite his state of mind. (Not that he ever has to actually drag them, or would resort to such measures, thankyouverymuch.)

He turns his head with closed eyes, meets a mass of soft, long hair and takes a whiff, and suddenly, his heart is racing, but it takes his brain a moment to sort out why.

He knows that scent.

He _knows_ it, and he knows that he likes it, but he also knows that it normally doesn't belong within the context of his bed.

The girl in his arm gives a dreamy sigh, and there is no going back to sleep _now_ , no pretending this is a normal occurance.

His head snaps back again and his eyes crack open, light be damned.

Curled into his loose embrace, back and butt pressing against his side, is _Mimi_.

_Oh_.

_Shit_.

Yep, that is definitely Mimi's hair he buried his face into just a moment ago. Which means that that is also _Mimi's breast_ his fingers are distractedly fondling, and _oh_ , the realization is enough to screw another bolt loose on his already fickle grasp on sanity.

Taichi swallows, hard, and lets his hand fall away. (His fingertips won't stop tingling.)

His throat is dry, and given his physical state, his blood should not be blazing this bad, his pulse not be this erratic. It's a testament to the gravity of the shock he's in, that he's this alert in a matter of seconds when he should only be groaning with hangover pains.

His mind is going a million miles per hour, desperately trying to remember — it's never, ever, been this urgent that he does — last night's events, while his heart is pumping one hot, heavy question through his veins: _How the fuck did Mimi get into bed with me?_

It's not the fact of her being in his bed _per se_ that upsets him.

He has let his friend crash at his apartment more times than he can count. After parties, tournaments, concerts; sometimes even for whole weekends or longer during the time she was still living in America, when she decided to come over spontaneously and it was either too late to book a hotel she thought acceptable or she a little too broke to afford it at the time. She once told him his place was her favorite among her friends' apartments, and he never minds having her over — partly because he simply enjoys her company, partly because it means he gets proper home-cooked meals as compensation from her.

Despite the fact that he always claims the couch in the living room in such scenarios, during all those years, it has occasionally happened that they would fall asleep in his bed side by side while having the kind of late-night talks you only have with close longtime friends.

But never, _ever_ , have they woken up like this, under the same duvet, with him literally curled around her, and that is the detail that has him reeling.

There was a close call once, the year before, where he practically had to heave her into bed, because Mimi was so drunk she could barely stand (her boyfriend had dumped her three weeks prior, and she had taken the opportunity of Taichi's summer tournament to escape from America for a while), but even then—

Taichi inhales sharply as his mind leaps from past to present again.

The _tournament_.

Suddenly, the memories rush back into his brain.

His friends, all of them for once, coming to cheer him on. Their victory. The party they held right at the stadium. The after-party they held at the house of one of his teammates, complete with booze and a working hi-fi system, and _oh fucking hell_ —

It's not Bon Jovi, it's ten times worse.

His hopes that he at least might have given the audience another rendition of " _You Give Love A Bad Name_ " (a classic in his drunken repertoire, one that doesn't sound half bad by now when he blares it) are ultimately crushed when some details of last night puzzle themselves together. Now he knows why the lyrics to Bryan Adams' " _Heaven_ " have been echoing in the back of his mind ever since he regained consciousness...

Maybe he doesn't want to see this time's YouTube video after all.

He presses his free hand against his eyes and barely stops himself from loudly groaning with dismay; he cannot risk waking Mimi while he's not yet up to date with what might or might not have happened between them.

Inwardly cringing, he forces himself to continue sifting through his alcohol-diluted recollection of the past night.

Taichi is aware that he's a shameless flirt when drunk (even more so than when he's sober), especially when simultaneously fueled by 80s rock, and so it doesn't surprise him that he remembers trying to kiss Yamato, who shoved him away and — and this explains the faint puckering in his jaw — punched him a little harder than necessary. (Yamato has been touchy on that subject since the one time the both of them had a drunken make-out session a few years back. He also has forbidden all of their friends to bring up the incident, ever, and generally avoids getting drunk around Taichi without supervision by both Jyou and Sora ever since.)

He thinks at this point there were several people trying to pry the microphone from him, but he obviously dodged them all, for he recalls serenading Miyako next, who was first blushing, then suddenly ushered away by Hikari (it's a good thing he lost his sense of shame around his sister years ago), so he stumbled along in search of another victim.

He finally zeroed in on Mimi, standing not even ten feet away from him.

She was laughing, beaming at him with those twinkling hazel eyes and a wide smile that brought out her dimples, and his heart jumps at the memory. He beelined to her through the people separating them without acknowledging anyone; anyone except her. She giggled when he stopped before her, then put a hand on his forearm to steady him because he was already slightly swaying.

She must have had her fair share of alcohol, too, though probably not as much as him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes a little glazed up close, but he only remembers that he thought her beautiful, that she had perhaps never looked more beautiful than in that very moment. Her hair was loose and falling down her shoulders in big, soft waves of light pink. The tips curled below her collarbones, a contrast to the lovely emerald dress she wore, and _hell_ , that was one deep neckline. She looked always good in darker greens, but that night, she was radiant. Almost glowing from within, beckoning to him like a lighthouse amidst a sea of noise and bodies.

He wonders why he sees all those details about her so clearly when the rest of the party is so blurry.

She giggled while he sang to her, never taking his eyes off her face, and her touch on his arm seemed to set his skin on fire. He remembers that his heartbeat picked up speed, much like it does now, and suddenly, he's not sure what's real anymore.

What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

The moment when the world lost balance is almost palpable to him even now.

The song wasn't over yet, but the words faded from his mouth in whispers, and he shoved the microphone into the hands of an unsuspecting bystander. Mimi looked at him in question and with parted lips, and that was were his glance went, then, narrowing on that perfect mouth.

No, really, it was perfect, _is_ perfect, there's no denying it — rose petals over pearls and velvet, utterly perfect for kissing, that's what he thought, and so that's what he did.

She was so close he just had to bend down to touch his mouth to hers, to bridge the gap between them that had become so unbearable all of a sudden. Perhaps she met him halfway; he can't say for sure, because he only paid attention to how she clutched him when he clutched her, how she responded to his every move. Their friends must have screamed in protest or something, he's certain, but he just doesn't know. All he remembers is Mimi, and the way she felt while hanging on to his lips — no, wrong, while _he_ was hanging on to _hers_.

The rest is foggy from then on; a blur of images and sensations that flood him as he tries to untangle them.

Her tiny waist in his arms. Soft, hot, sloppy kisses, each more urgent than the one before. Dull noise, a slap on his shoulder, losing contact. Then air and darkness punctured by a million lights, and he remembers Sora's voice but not the content of her words. Mimi grabbing him by the hand, leading him, and he's only sure it's her because the memory is laced with her scent, the very same one he breathes right now. The cool leather of a taxi seat against his bare arms, and his hand on her thigh, and hers atop it, keeping him in place.

His lip twitches and he flushes slightly while his thoughts linger on the detail.

It's the last solid thing his mind can draw up, everything that follows blank, washed away by the alcohol that really must've gotten to him at that point. He doesn't know when or how they managed to get into his apartment, or what happened between them after they did.

This time, Taichi groans for real, softly.

He's not equipped to deal with this, not right now, in this state of mind, this early. (Or not-so-early, judging by the light outside, but as long as he doesn't remember, it _is_ too early.) His heart is hammering senselessly in his chest, fluttering like a trapped bird blind with panic, and he doesn't recognize that part of himself.

He stares at the back of her head, at that achingly familiar shade of pink spilled all over his pillows, and tries to make sense of it all.

It's not the first time he wakes to find himself in bed with a girl he cannot remember getting into it with, and he has never reacted to it like this.

But after all, this is _Mimi_ next to him, and that means that normal rules don't apply anymore. — And he hasn't even started unpacking the _why_ of it all, and he's not sure he's ready for _that_ particular soul-search, either.

Taichi's eyes focus on one particularly curly lock of hair in front of him. His hand is not holding on to her anymore (he tries not to think about where he placed it just minutes ago), but his arm is still more or less trapped beneath her body; he can feel every rise and fall of her chest, and somehow, the rhythm calms his nerves a bit while leaving him with a kind of hesitation he cannot quite place.

He's aware that he should maybe extricate his arm from her now and quickly and quietly slip away, as long as it would still go unnoticed. It's the proper thing to do, the sensible thing to do, the _gentlemanly_ thing to do.

Instead, his body turns and curves around hers, seeking full contact.

He feels neither very sensible nor gentlemanly, and perhaps that should concern him more than it does.

But she is soft, and warm, and slopes and rounded corners to his planes and angles, and something about this whole thing simply feels _right_ , just like it did the night before.

If there is one thing Taichi usually doesn't question, it's his gut feeling, and his gut has just decided that maybe he can try and relish this _just a little longer_ before she wakes up and probably starts yelling at him. Before he has to face whatever did or did not occur in the space of that blank blotch in his memory.

He does his best to appear sleeping and harmless, makes a small noise like he's dreaming, just in case, (years of trying to avoid household chores have made him a skillful pretend-sleeper), then pulls her in a little closer and buries his face in her hair again. Mimi's scent seems to soothe his headache and rouse his spirits a little — his spirits, and, faintly, other things. (He should be more disturbed by that than he is, a part of his conscience insists.)

He shifts his hips away from her in response, only to touch his forehead to her neck. Her scent is stronger there, and he feels the urge to lick her skin, but he still has _some_ restraint left. (It's not much, though.)

His heart presents him with an emotion that tastes dangerously like _belonging_ , and he flinches inwardly.

When did everything change?

When did one of his best friends, this lovely girl he's known since elementary school, turn into something beyond that? There is no single incident that would account for why he's suddenly viewing her through a man's eyes instead of a friend's, why he's suddenly so insanely attracted to her. (And he _is_ attracted to her, that much he recognizes. He's blunt and abrasive and a bit of a klutz about emotional stuff of this particular brand, but he's not stupid.)

More important, why did she reciprocate? He has never ruled out a friends-with-benefits relationship for himself, should the opportunity ever arise, but he would not have pegged Mimi as the type to do something like that. (She's a romantic at heart, this capricious princess.)

So, does it mean something?

_Could_ it mean something?

There are too many questions swimming in his mind, too many variables to this equation, and Taichi's too hung over to ponder them properly. So he does what feels natural and presses his nose below Mimi's ear, breathing her in, pink hair tickling his face. His hand on her ribcage bunches the shirt she's wearing, and he blinks and glances at the collar, only to notice that the thing actually belongs within his own wardrobe.

He swallows.

Another piece of evidence — apart from his own near-nakedness except for his boxer shorts — that he perhaps blacked out during what might have been the possibly best or most awkward sex of his life.

He really doesn't know what's considered proper behavior for such a situation, has no idea what to do, so he just keeps holding and nuzzling her.

His other arm sneaks around her waist, fingertips coming to rest where the shirt has ridden up to bare her hipbone. She twitches and shifts briefly, and he holds his breath, but then she just relaxes back into his embrace with some incoherent sleepy muttering.

The sensation of her hair on his collarbones makes something in his stomach coil.

That tiny voice in the back of his mind pipes up again, reminding him that _this is Mimi, for fuck's sake_ , and that he's taking advantage of the situation, and that he's an asshole for doing so. He wonders just how many unspoken friendship rules he is breaking at that very moment. Whether he should be ashamed of how openly his body craves her. (Perhaps not just his body, but he can't really admit that right now.)

And _yet_...

It doesn't feel as awkward as it should. Far from it. In fact, it feels so effortless and natural, lying there with her like this, that he's relaxing again, content just to hold on to her, to have her close.

Another part of himself reminds him that he's actually still hung over and perhaps should rest a bit more; Mimi doesn't seem to be going anywhere soon, and yeah, it probably wouldn't hurt to go for another little nap...

"You suck at acting, Yagami."

_Fuck_.

He's wide awake again.

Taichi winces for the fraction of a second, fears the worst, remains stock-still — equal parts shock and visceral reluctance to let her go — and doesn't shift a milimeter.

Neither does she.

Eight seconds tick by in which he doesn't dare move. But Mimi's breathing is still calm under his touch, and so he figures he might not be in immediate danger of losing a limb.

"Sorry," he murmurs against her skin; his tongue is thick with sleep (and guilt, and confusion, and _something else_ ).

"Are you really, though?" There's a smile in her voice (slightly gravelly, and he doesn't know why that has such an effect on his heartrate), even though she still doesn't turn around to look at him.

They remain as they are, pressed into each other like familiar lovers, and it's the sudden feeling of _right_ and _mine_ and _safe_ that makes him tongue-tied. He doesn't reply (because he just can't bring himself to lie to her, nor blurt the truth), and apparently that's answer enough for her. Mimi yawns softly, then stretches like a cat in his arms, and the way her shoulder blades touch his chest while her hipbone glides against his fingers should not work him up as much as it does.

His throat feels like sandpaper.

He _needs_ to know.

"Last night—," he attempts, stops again. It's like the words are clawing at his teeth, trying to stay unspoken, because it feels as if they're powerful enough to shatter the moment. "I don't..." He exhales and looks up at the ceiling, fuming at his own idiocy. (Why the _heck_ is he so _flustered_?) "We... did we..?"

She grows very still, shifts a leg — he has to keep from jumping when her skin brushes his —, then chuckles. "You don't remember? That's pretty wounding, you know."

She is goading him, he's aware of it, and he acknowledges that he's earned it. But still, he needs to know, needs to hear her say it. He raises the hand that fell away when she stretched, hesitantly splays it over her stomach, and nervous fingers fiddle with the fabric of her shirt. ( _His_ shirt, a part of his mind reminds him gently, and there goes his pulse again.)

"Tell me," he whispers.

He's pretty sure he didn't give his lips the order to press a kiss onto her neck, but they do it anyway, and he can't pretend he doesn't enjoy the way her breath hitches. Mimi being Mimi, though, she doesn't stay flustered for very long.

She clears her throat and turns her head away so he gets a face full of her hair (gosh, that _scent_ ), then simply says: "No, we didn't."

Relief knocks the air out of him while disappointment slaps him across the face.

The former he understands, the latter he's still trying to.

"You, ah..." She clucks her tongue and shrugs. "I don't know how to put this nicely."

Her fingertips start drawing patterns on the back of his hand, the one on her hip, and he can feel his skin grow tighter.

"Just hit me. It can't get much worse than what is circling around YouTube by now," he snorts, and she giggles, and then they're both laughing. Apparently their headaches also re-announce themselves at the same time, because they both shut up after only a handful of seconds.

She hesitates for just a moment longer. "You sort of fell asleep with your face between my breasts."

Taichi's eyes bulge.

_What in the_ —

Obviously Mimi's statement caused his brain to shut down, because it takes him a couple of moments to actually process and accept what she just said.

_Huh_.

Well, that's a first.

"So I shoved you off of me," she goes on blithely, "grabbed a shirt from your closet and called it a night." She pinches the back of his hand lightly. "You're fucking heavy, by the way."

He's not even sure how to respond to that. His mind is still trying to catch up, to grasp what she just told him. He fucked up. Big time. In more ways than one. Is there even anything you _can_ say in such a situation?

"I'm sorry." It's simple, almost generic, but then, big words have never been his forte when it comes to emotional stuff. It may be plain, but he means it. "I'm sorry, Mimi."

(For what, though? Taking it that far? Not following through with it? Falling asleep on her? Kissing her in the first place out of drunken impulse? He's not sure anymore.)

"Of course you are," she says, and he can practically _hear_ her eyebrows shoot up in a mock expression.

"Really. I _am_." He presses his forehead to her neck in a gesture that is universal for begging forgiveness, and also completely unlike him. The last twenty-four hours seem to be a time of firsts for him.

Mimi only laughs, and the vibration of it should not make his fingers burn this much. "Well, if you pull that lousy move on all your lovers, that explains a few things."

Taichi stiffens as if he has just been dealt a blow.

Her comment is flippant and innocuous, and under normal circumstances, he would laugh. But these are no normal circumstances, and so instead of laughter, he feels irritation bubble up below his throat.

He's not a saint, not by a long shot, and everyone knows and he'll never deny it, but something about Mimi bringing up his past relationships and flings, and worse, _comparing herself to them_ , just makes his blood boil with... _something_. His reaction is entirely irrational, but it's not like he cares much about that.

"Don't," he growls and grabs her just a little tighter.

"What?" Her voice raises half an octave and sounds almost petulant now. "C'mon, what's your problem, it's not as if—"

"You're special, Mi," he cuts her off.

It's a cheesy thing to say, he's fully aware of it, and apparently Mimi can't believe he said it, either, for she lies there in baffled silence, unmoving.

He thinks he actually meant to say "You are special _to me_ ", but apparently his brain-to-mouth filter is still too whacked to translate that properly. It doesn't change that what he _did_ say is true, though.

Mimi is special in so many ways, it makes him reel; she stands out in every crowd, even without opening her mouth, and even more so when she does. She is anything but ordinary, more complicated and erratic and headstrong than at least ninety percent of the girls he knows. Sometimes careless, often loud; enthusiastic beyond reason when something strikes her fancy, quick to give her opinion on any topic, quite often even before or without being asked. At times so absorbed by her own ideas that people might even call her _jikochuu_ , but she is never intentionally hurtful, and always, _always_ sincere.

He wouldn't have her any other way.

Taichi being Taichi, though, he can't just go and say it.

He's good at talking when he needs to be, at motivating people and inspiring them when he has to, and neither his professors nor himself have any doubt that he's cut out for the position of a true leader or mediator of some kind, if he would just eventually put in some more effort. But this is neither politics nor team-leading, and the only language exercise at hand is the interpretation of what's carved in his heart and his mind into words, and he hasn't really learned how to do that yet. (Not that he's entirely sure he even understands those carvings in the first place.)

But maybe Mimi's surprising empathy has already kicked in, because she still doesn't laugh or scoff at him. Instead, she exhales, long and quietly.

"Bet you say that to all the others, too," she murmurs; the muted sadness in her voice sends chills down his spine.

"You _are_."

He kisses her neck, and not the small, almost innocent pecks he has left there until now.

He kisses her skin the way he does when he means business with a lover: lips parted, teeth scraping, tongue curious — the kind of kiss that has a rhythm at its core and drips anticipation. Mimi arches into him _just so_ , and he might as well still be drunk, because he doesn't know what he's doing anymore. His body reacts purely on instinct, mind still trying to catch up, and so he pulls her closer before he can question his own actions.

"Taichi..."

She sighs softly while he nibbles her skin, and he's fascinated by the fact that he didn't know how much he likes hearing her say his name. He presses her against himself in an attempt to _show_ her what he means instead of telling her, as if she could soak up his emotions merely by the touch of their bodies against one another.

This language, he's fluent in. It's a language not only of the mouth but also of the hands, of the whole body, and using them to express himself by now comes as natural to him as breathing.

Breathing, coincidentally, is another core part of this peculiar communication, and Mimi's breathing right now tells him her response to his advances as clearly as if they were holding a conversation. He can feel it speed up along with her heartrate under his searching fingers, can hear her gasp when he softly bites her neck, only to lick the spot a moment later. He catches her small moan before she can slap a hand over her mouth to keep it in, and that is when his hips start talking to her as well.

Yes, this is the kind of dialogue Taichi excels at, and he prides himself on it. He's never quite as chatty with words as he is when he's talking in body language.

Mimi buries a hand in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, and _that_ lights him up and disperses the clouds of the hangover faster than any strong coffee or breakfast could.

"You keep that up down there and maybe I'll start believing you."

She's whispering, but he hears her loud and clear. He doesn't have to ask what she's referring to.

_Right_.

For a while there, he forgot why what he was doing might not be such a good idea, and he blinks a few times to clear his mind. His grip on her loosens a little while his throat contricts, to give her space to escape, if that's what she wants. (Somewhere between waking up, sifting trough the haze of his memories and hugging her, he must have lost his sense of what's real, what's proper.) He retreats a bit, and her hand slides out of his hair, but then Mimi just scoots backwards and rubs up against him.

He has to stifle a groan.

"What are you doing?" (He must have damaged his vocal cords somehow; his voice sounds far too deep and gravelly.)

Her laugh is breathless. "You, in a minute or so, I think."

Taichi doesn't even dare believe what he just heard.

For a second or five or fifteen, he just stares at her, at the curve of her shoulder, as if it holds the answer.

His tongue is heavy when he asks her, "Why?"

He cannot help but wonder whether she has thought this through before — before the past night, even — and weighed all the options. She seems too calm and collected and eager for this to be entirely spontaneous.

"I don't know if there's just one reason." She shrugs. The movement makes the fabric of her shirt brush against his nipple _just so_ , and he very nearly chokes. "Because I'm hung over and cuddly and you're warm and cozy. Because apparently there's some crazy tension going on between the two of us."

She delivers it like a matter-of-fact statement, and of course, he knows it's obvious, but the fact that she says it means acknowledging it, means that it's _true_.

"Because I was going to before you fell asleep on me last night," she adds in a hushed tone, almost bashful. "Because I _want_ to. — Don't _you_?"

Instead of answering without hesitation out of impulse, Taichi actually takes a minute to ask himself that very question.

Not whether it's right, or whether the consequences outweigh the blind enthusiasm of the moment, or whether it'll be the spark of a lasting fire or just a flame that burns and fizzles as suddenly as it started. No. _Do I want this?_ , Taichi asks himself.

He finds the answer in the rise and fall of her chest beneath his palm, in the curve of her hip against his, in the way all of this feels so _fucking right_ , doubts be damned, and in the flickering, hazy memory of Mimi leading him by the hand through a sea of lights.

"Yeah."

That very hand of hers comes up to touch his cheek in a delicate gesture, and his eyes close by instinct.

"There," she says, smile and a smugness that is entirely feminine dripping from her tone. "I'm glad we agree."

He doesn't really need more encouragement than that.

Mimi reaches back into his hair as he bunches her shirt and pulls it up to expose more of her skin and the soft lines of her stomach. His left hand starts to fondle her breasts while the other grabs her hip again, and to know that she _wants_ this makes it a hundred times more pleasurable. The way she sighs when he covers her neck in open-mouthed kisses is intoxicating; so is the moan she releases when he resumes grinding against her, and Taichi gives himself over to the dialogue that's once more unfolding between their bodies.

"You like that?" His voice is all gravel again, but if anything, it only seems to spur her on. "Huh? You like that, Mi?" (Talking to her like this should definitely not turn him on this much, but it does.)

"Are you always this cocky in bed?" she scoffs, but the way she squirms when he grinds her more insistently betrays her composure.

"You tell me," he whispers, then catches her earlobe with his teeth and twines her legs with one of his.

_Fuck_. He's really getting hard now, and he needs her closer, closer, _closer_.

"Gosh, you're so hot," she blurts, and the sigh that follows just makes him throb.

"And it just took you a decade to come to that conclusion," he quips, grinning.

"I meant your _temperature_ , you _idiot_." She doesn't simply say it, she moans it, because he has reached between her legs and started to caress her there.

He enjoys the way she writhes against his hand because the feeling sets him ablaze just as much as it does her, and so he keeps stroking her through the warm silk for a while — teasing, taunting, ratcheting the anticipation up for the both of them, until his cock strains almost painfully and Mimi starts cursing softly.

Then he finally slips his hand into her panties.

His name falling from her lips in a moan might be the most nerve-wrecking thing he's ever heard, and his heart stutters at the sound.

His fingers find her hot and slick, and _gosh_ , the sensation just makes him ache for her more. He can't remember ever wanting anyone as badly as he wants Mimi right that moment.

He _needs_ her, and he needs her _now_.

Dazed, frantic, Taichi extricates himself from her just a bit — and her responding whine has him throbbing painfully — to reach out for his bedside table and pull out the top drawer. His hand fumbles around blindly among the contents, and he mutters a string of curses, but he can't say whether that's because it takes him so long to find the condoms stored away in there, or because Mimi uses the time to completely get rid of her shirt and he still feels her every move.

"Don't make me wait too long here, soccer boy," she teases in a singsong, and he grunts with frustration.

As soon as his hand finally closes around a string of foil packages, Taichi just impatiently pulls out the whole thing and drops it next to himself before he presses his body flush to Mimi's again. One of her hands has come to rest on the one of his that is still cupping her boob, the other has found his thigh and is caressing it in a manner that makes his insides coil like a spring.

"Take them off," he rasps while his mouth starts kissing a line down her neck, free hand going straight for her hips to push at her panties.

"Take what off?" Her question is deceptively innocent, but the way she arches into him isn't. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Tease," he growls, and Mimi just laughs before she shifts to accomodate him and reaches down to finish the job herself.

"There. Better?"

Taichi would reply, but she has just pressed her butt into his lap again, and any quip collapses in his throat at the sensation of her heat through the fabric of his shorts. Shorts which definitely need to go, he decides.

"Lots," he groans. "Just a sec."

He retrieves both his arms from around and underneath her this time and makes short work of removing that last piece of clothing which separates them to toss it out of the bed. Then, movements shaky with arousal, he reaches for the foil packages again and impatiently rips one open. He has the condom out and on in a total of three seconds, and never before in his life has he been so glad that his first time is a ton of other times past by now. He knows what he's doing; it's one thing less to worry about in this tangled mess of limbs and hearts and morning haze.

Because this is _Mimi_ , and that fact has him nervous and worked up as anything without the additional pressure of not knowing his way around a woman's body.

But then again, because, yes, _this is Mimi_ , everything is new, and it's like learning bicycling all over again.

Taichi leans back in, hugs her close and gently cups her boobs, and something in his chest tips over when he notices the way she fits against him in the double curve their bodies form. Face pressed to her shoulder, lips worrying her skin, he smoothes one hand down her thigh and hikes her leg up over his to make room for himself.

He whispers something to her that he thinks might be a love declaration or a compliment or some sweet coital nonsense; he doesn't pay attention to how his mouth translates his thoughts at this point.

What he actually says is "C'mere," and she complies, and he presses into her as instinctively as they both gasp for breath when he does.

Mimi laces her fingers with his over her ribcage, reaches for his side with her other hand to anchor herself, to add one more layer to the knot they have become. He grasps her by the hip and starts to move, weirdly in sync with her without missing a beat, and his heart dances wild patterns on his sternum.

She feels exactly like she looks: soft, warm, delicious, breathtaking. All moist velvet and just snug enough around him, and for a moment, he thinks he might really lose his nerve.

Because he's so out of it and maybe doesn't have as much of a clue as he claims. Because it's _Mimi_ , and he's not sure he should be doing what he does, even though he wants to. Because even that first taste of her makes him crave so much more than just some hungover fling with a friend.

Because it's heaven, but less than she deserves, and already more than he can take, and _fuck_.

It doesn't happen often that Taichi declares himself overwhelmed, but he is, right now. There are too many thoughts in his head, too many emotions in his heart, too many sensations rushing over his whole body, and he's not sure his brain can keep up with processing it all; but it does, somehow.

Mimi's hand moves from his flank to his hip, mirroring the hold he has on her, and just like he pulls her into him, she pulls him into her. They find a rhythm that dances a line between languid and needy, and his worries get pushed farther and farther into the back of his mind with every arch of her back, every moan that falls from her lips, every thrust he rocks into her.

Their breathing becomes more synchronized the more ragged it gets, and Taichi presses an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder, tastes the salt on her skin, and then rests his forehead against the crook of her neck in abject surrender.

He knows he's getting unreasonably sentimental, but he can't help thinking that this might be a nice way to die. He wants to never feel anything other than this, right now, with Mimi.

Then a sob rips through her suddenly, and he feels her nails dig into his flesh. It's the flavour of pain he likes, but he still slows down, peppers kisses below her ear.

"You okay?" She just moans in response, but he won't take that for an answer. "Talk to me, princess," he orders her, slows some more.

"I'm good," she blurts, voice all askew. "Don't you dare!"

Her hips follow his, not allowing him to pull out too far, and her muscles clamp around him. It isn't painful, but he has to stop moving altogether nonetheless, because the feel of it almost makes him see stars, and the groan he lets out is embarassingly desperate.

"Keep going," she pleads, writhing against him. " _Please_."

He does.

He has reached the point of frenzy where Mimi could ask pretty much anything of him; he would comply.

Not as if Taichi needs an extra helping of encouragement to buck into her again, because it's also the point where the physical hunger for pleasure overrides nearly everything else and he just wants more, more, more... More of her sweat-dewed skin that sticks to his and prickles his tongue as he kisses her shoulder; more of her mewls and whines and moans and sobs that become increasingly louder and frequent now with every thrust and vibrate right into him; more of that hot, silken slickness that is the very definition of bliss and so deliciously condensed around his cock...

He's losing it, in more ways than one, and he knows it, and something will give, soon — either his sanity or his hold on his orgasm, because he's trying to drag this out for as long as possible, for her sake and his own, and to make this last as long as he can, but he's slipping, slipping...

He flexes his leg to spread her even wider, lightly bites her shoulder as she _gasps_ (he'll carry the marks of her nails in his thigh for days, and he loves the thought) when he pushes deeper, fills her to the hilt and reaches down her abdomen. She whimpers his name when he starts rubbing her, quivers in his arms, and Taichi throbs so violently in response that he loses momentum for a heartbeat before he falls back into rhythm. They are both shaking, frazzled, _desperate_ , and there is no stopping, no pausing, only the way forward and into release, and so that's where he drives them, until —

He feels the first of her spasms a millisecond before she cries out and arches into him almost violently, squeezing him and making all sorts of small, pleasurable sounds that only feed his pride, and Taichi doesn't have much of a chance to marvel at this raw, undone version of Mimi before the sheer physical force of her orgasm pulls his own from him.

Just like that, he's lost.

He hears curses and groaning and knows it's him, but it seems so far away it might as well be someone else. For a while, his whole universe consists of nothing except one long, overwhelming wave of undiluted pleasure that pulls him under and swallows him whole, leaving him to helplessly clutch at whatever solid fragment of reality remains through this haze.

He clings to Mimi like a drowning man as they hold each other through the aftershocks, moving slower, slower, slower still... until they come to rest after what feels like an eternity.

They simply lie there, quietly, taking in each other and their surroundings with heightened senses, blazing nerves and softened minds.

When he finally slips out of her to clean up a bit, they both wince because he's just as raw and sensitive as her right now. He's more careful when he returns, pulling her into his arms and against his chest with deliberate tenderness and a lingering kiss to her shoulder.

It's tempting to get lost in the moment, the feeling of her, the softness in his ribcage that has nothing to do with post-coital hormones but with something else entirely, and Taichi wants just that.

But there are parts of his brain that are not so easily appeased, and he is reminded that this is still not normal, still _very much_ out of the ordinary — because the woman he just fucked like his life depended on it is also the one whom he has been a reliable friend to for more than a decade now, and reconciling those two truths proves difficult.

Tension crawls into his shoulders; he doesn't want to do this, he really doesn't, but he has to.

"Do we need to talk about this?"

His question hangs in the air for a few heavy seconds, until Mimi slowly rolls around and looks at him.

And Taichi is suddenly very aware that this is the first time they are facing each other since waking up, and the notion makes him anxious. He feels naked, so very naked — not physically, since that has never bothered him, but psychologically. It's like he's never been so exposed, so _vulnerable_. (His mind almost chokes on the word.) Mimi's hazel eyes are stripping him on a level that goes beyond what he normally feels comfortable with, and he just wants to bolt.

But yet again: _this is Mimi_ , he reminds himself. This is different, and _she_ is different, and thus maybe _he_ is different by now, too.

So Taichi just stares back at her, nervous, terrified, unmoving, and prays that her small, soft, searching hands on his chest don't pick up on how panicked his pulse has become.

They study each other for a while in silence.

Then Mimi leans in and presses her lips to his; not passionate, not demanding, but slow and sweet and questioning, and his heartrate doesn't change as panic gives way to elation. He kisses her back in the same unhurried manner. One hand finds her neck, the other cups her cheek, and for a minute or so, his surroundings dissolve into only sensation again until she gently pulls back.

"No." The word dances in the space between their mouths. "No, we don't," she clarifies, quietly, looking straight at him again.

And maybe he should be the littlest bit ashamed for how relieved her answer makes him feel, but Taichi really couldn't care less, because he's not equipped to deal with all this. Not out loud. Not this early.

"Not yet, anyway," Mimi adds after a moment. Her index finger traces a line down his sternum and her eyes follow the movement, skipping up to his face shyly a few times. "Sometime later."

' _Later_ '.

He can do 'later'. Taichi is an expert when it comes to 'later'.

He simply mouths, "okay," and lets her hands and eyes roam his body. His own fingers find a silky curl of pink to play with.

They lie entwined there for a while, silent and spellbound somehow.

Then something shifts — either in the mood or in his brain, he's not quite sure — and Taichi blurts, "We definitely should get drunk more often if this is the result."

Laughter, clear as a bell and free as a bird, bubbles from those sweet lips, and he leans forward to steal another kiss. But Mimi has already rolled onto her back and scoffs at him.

"Oh, please, it's not as if that would be necessary." She combs her delicate fingers through a few strands of hair, and looks so alluring and carefree and simply like herself that it makes his ribcage tighten again for reasons he doesn't know. (Or pretends not to know, at least.) "I can wrap you around my little finger just as easily when I'm sober," she declares, grinning smugly at him.

Taichi doesn't doubt it. She must have put him under some weird kind of secret feminine magic, he decides, because it makes no sense at all that he should feel so desperately hung up on her after one night. (Or one morning. Or whatever.)

But it's not like he's going to admit that.

He props his head up on one hand and looks down at her, raising one eyebrow. "Very confident, aren't we, princess?"

"Of course."

Mimi meets his gaze with feigned innocence and candid calmness. She purses her lips (he licks his own in response; it's a knee-jerk reaction) and considers him for two seconds, then sits up.

His eyes follow the lines of her body, lingering on a few select spots, and his skin and insides start prickling again when the awareness hits him how utterly beautiful she really is. He swallows around the lump in his throat and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words never make it out.

Because Mimi grabs him by the hand with a half-whispered "c'mon" and starts tugging him out of bed, and Taichi lets her, because how could he not?

She snickers at his dazed expression while her soft, warm hand grips his and leads him away by it. Out of bed, out of his room, through the hall, into the bathroom, and he just follows, because honestly, he thinks he would follow her anywhere.

Taichi doesn't say so, but it's in the way he squeezes her hand, in the look he gives her when he closes the door behind them, in the kiss he pulls her in for when she gives him a coquettish wink.

Mimi insists on taking a shower with him, and they don't make it out of the bathroom for another hour.

 

 


End file.
